Today, women are lighting lampsand dead leaves are dancing off the treesand into these halcyon fall dayscome cutting slips of windand in their houseswomen are lighting lampsThey’re whispering, “Come in.”

The old one is tending a black potIt might be bone stewShe might be a witchand in the lamplightsteam pours from the potDarkness opens her loving armsShe whispers, “Come in.”

We hold each other through two cold nightsOne night he sleepsThe next I doWe stumble and flicker along a dream riverthat might lead backto the house inside uswhere women are lighting lamps:this mystery whispering, “Come in.”